Home for the Holidays
by gentlewinnix
Summary: Christmas in New Jersey is, Nix decides, markedly better than it was in Bastogne. Winnix.


**Author's Note: **Happy 2020! This was originally meant to be posted on Christmas for a holiday fic exchange, but I was unable to finish in time due to stress and travel, so I've decided to write this as a gift for my HBO War Discord pals instead. So this is dedicated to: lyselkatz, realhunterswearplaid, youdontrememberthesomme, and junojelli! Love you all lots and I hope you enjoy this belated holiday fluff. ❤

Favorites are nice, but reviews are love.

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December 25, 1946  
Nixon, New Jersey

It's a rare thing for Nix to wake up before Dick, but on the morning of Christmas when he drags his eyes open, Nix finds Dick's back still rising and falling gently with sleep. He turns onto his side, scooting over until he's spooning up behind Dick, bare skin pressed against the soft cotton of Dick's long johns.

Dick mumbles and shifts, and Nix hears a telltale sniffle as Dick wakes up.

"Good morning," Nix murmurs, kissing behind Dick's ear.

"Morning," Dick replies, his voice still low and deep with sleep. He shivers and moans as Nix trails wet kisses lower, teasing. Nix curls a hand around Dick's hip and finds him half-hard.

"Someone's having a very good morning indeed," Nix teases. "Want me to take care of that for you?"

"Please," Dick says breathlessly, and Nix turns his face up for a kiss. He gets Dick situated on his back and slides down, picking open the buttons of Dick's long johns. It feels almost obscene, because there's an innocence to the sight of Dick's lanky body swallowed up by soft cotton fabric, his hair mussed with sleep. Nix has always liked the sight of Dick in these pajamas, for all that he's teased him over them.

Nix pushes the fabric aside, ignoring Dick's need in favor of pressing wet kisses to the insides of his pale freckled thighs. His bearded cheeks scrape against Dick's skin as he trails kisses upward, leaving blotchy red irritation in its wake.

"Dammit, Lew, that _burns_," Dick hisses, fingers curling tight in Nix's hair.

"The boys didn't call me Blackbeard for no reason," Nix says smugly, and swallows Dick down.

"One of these days I'm taking a razor to your face," Dick grumbles.

After, Dick strips for a shower while Nix brushes his teeth and gets changed. He takes a wine red sweater from the drawer—it's one of Dick's, but he never wears it because it clashes with his hair—pulling it on over his shirt. He wanders off into the kitchen to scare up some breakfast, and Dick catches up to him as he's setting down coffee, eggs, and toast on the table. Nix feels Dick's eyes raking over him, but he only quirks a smile as he sits down.

"Comfortable?" Dick asks, and Nix pulls at the collar of the sweater.

"It's a bit warmer than I need, to be frank," Nix teasing. "Considering your name, it's funny how much you hate the cold."

Dick huffs a quiet laugh into his coffee. "Always have."

Nix can't speak for Dick, but as he eats he finds himself reminiscing about how they'd spent Christmas just two years prior—in Bastogne, cold and half-starved and never sure if they'd make it to the next day. When they'd been resupplied just after Christmas, Nix had given Dick his coat and gloves, sacrificing them for the then-captain who'd been pale, shivering, and red-nosed for a worryingly long time. Dick hates the cold now, and with a passion that almost rivals his love of sweets. When the northern winds first brought snow to New Jersey he'd bundled himself up in two sweaters and wool socks as if they lived in the Arctic, and has since refused to leave the house unless it is absolutely necessary. Nix indulges him, making post office and grocery runs alone, but he's not all that much happier about it. One winter spent outdoors and underdressed while being shelled constantly is one winter too many.

After they've cleared their plates and done the dishes, Nix finds himself needing a distraction, and he turns on the radio. Christmas music fills the house as he lights the fireplace and curls up beside Dick on the couch, sticking cold bare feet under his thighs. Dick casts him an amused smile, then returns to reading his book.

They spend the rest of the daylight hours like this, sharing a companionable silence and never too far apart.

When the sun begins to set and the snow outside turns vibrant shades of red and violet, Nix migrates back into the kitchen, pours himself a glass of wine, and sets to preparing supper. Dick joins him after he's put the turkey breast in the oven, and Nix gives him a knife and squash to cut up while he starts on the oyster stuffing. He works seamlessly around Dick's steady presence until he's pleasantly buzzed and there's nothing left to do but wait for everything to cook.

Dick ambles over to Nix then, his hands bracketing Nix's ribs. He smirks as he pushes gently, backing Nix up against the counter. Nix lets himself melt into the contact, tilting his head up obligingly and draping his arms around Dick's shoulders as Dick's lips meet his in a sweet kiss.

Christmas in New Jersey is, Nix decides, markedly better than it was in Bastogne.

"You feeling warmed up yet?" Nix teases. He feels an ice cold hand press against his stomach and yelps, cursing as he tries to pull away. Dick follows, mischief glittering in his blue eyes as he keeps his fingers pressed against Nix's belly. Nix manages to shove him away after a moment, laughing. "Okay, you made your point," he concedes breathlessly.

"Ma always said I was too skinny, that's why I'm always cold," Dick says, watching as Nix checks on the squash. "She'd make me clear my plate every Christmas."

"Your mother is a wise woman," Nix agrees.

He thinks, with a pang, of the lousy excuse for a Christmas dinner they'd had in Bastogne. Dick had let the rest of the company eat before he got himself a serving, and he'd wound up with only a cup of broth and three beans. He'd gone to sleep hungry that night, curled up against Nix, shivering and breathing harshly through his discomfort.

Nix had vowed then that he'd teach himself to cook, just so he'd never have to witness Dick's hunger again.

Supper is ready soon enough, and Nix pours Dick a glass of milk and heaps his plate full to nearly overflowing with turkey, stuffing, buttered squash, and olives before sending him off to the table with a kiss on the cheek. He follows close behind with his own plate and half-emptied glass of wine. They chat amiably as they eat, shoulders bumping occasionally, and when they've finished, they migrate to the sitting room. Dick pulls two wrapped gifts from under the tinsel-swathed tree and hands the bigger of the two to Nix with a warm smile.

Nix accepts it with a raised eyebrow, finding it hard and sturdy to the touch. He tears the paper back gently and feels his heart clench as he sees a familiar photograph of him and Dick at Toccoa in their PT gear, grinning at the camera. It's been framed, now, and Nix smiles.

"I know just where to put this," he says, thinking of the bare wall in the study. "It's perfect, Dick, thank you."

"Course," Dick says, smiling crookedly. "I know it's your favorite one."

"Open yours," Nix says, gesturing to the small box perched on Dick's thighs. He obliges, tearing the paper and lifting the top to find a pair of brand-new insulated leather gloves, the expensive kind that Nix likes to wear.

"Your old ones are disintegrating," Nix grumbles. "A replacement pair was long overdue."

"They look great," Dick says, sliding one on experimentally. It's lined with a velvety sort of suede, and his hand is instantly warm. He takes it off and sets the box aside, curling up close to Nix and linking their fingers.

"Merry Christmas, Lew," he says, and rests his head on Nix's shoulder.


End file.
